“I couldn’t say.” Lucasta wished her friends would take an interest in any topic of conversation but Jem and his family. If his father did return to England, what then of Portia and her children? The Marquess of Arendale’s Black mistress would be an object of much wonder and speculation, and there would be no hope of hiding her children away in Little Chelsea, even if Jem felt it was for their own protection.
But this was none of her concern. She occupied herself with sipping from her tumbler of orgeat. She knew Clara Bellwether wished her in Hades and only extended the invitation because it would sink her as an admired hostess not to have the latest freak of fashion, the Gorgons, in attendance at her soiree.
And here, Lucasta could escape the frigid air pervading the Pevensey town house. The Baron was attempting by furious stares to bring Lucasta to heel. Lady Pevensey couldn’t look Lucasta in the eye. Trevor had made himself scarce, as if he expected his father was lurking around corners waiting to throw a noose about his neck. Even Cici was subdued and had begun limiting her entertainments to one outing a night, instead of three.
Lucasta had not heard from Bertie, though she had sent a note of condolence. Neither had she heard from Jem, who was not attending this evening. It had only been days since his grandfather’s passing; there would be much setting affairs in order, which fell solely on him.
“And Bertie shall have to hide away again,” Selina said with a sigh. “Just when we had found a new friend.”
What would this mean for Judith? Lucasta wondered. She had sent a note to Rose Hollow as well but received nothing in return, which was unlike Judith. Perhaps she too had much to do to prepare for the funeral. And what of Tressie, Starria, and Hannibal? Children would not attend the funeral in any case, but would they be allowed to openly grieve?
Judith had spoken of her grandfather’s horror at what he thought her deformity. To one of the old Marquess’s temperament, blindness, illness, and other debilities were punishments from God. Her own father might very well feel the same way. And if he had not felt obliged to recognize his new family as Earl Payne, what would the new Marquess of Arendale do with them now? His unkindness would torment Jem.
Lucasta’s heart ached. She wished she could be a support and a help to him during this time. But he was too proud to send for her, and she was still too devastated by that kiss to have the courage to call at Arendale House, knowing what Lady Payne had seen.
She ought to be practicing for the benefit concert, a mere week away. She had rehearsals to oversee. She must review and correct a printed proof of the program, confirm the flowers were ordered for decoration, and check with Mlle. Beaudoin on the new embroidered aprons her seamstresses were making for the foundlings who would perform.
Her own gown needed a last fitting as well. Jem had produced a gorgeous saffron silk that Mlle. Beaudoin fashioned into an elegant open robe with lace at the ruffled sleeves and a stomacher set with embroidered flowers. She felt queenly in it, though her role for the concert would be largely backstage, ensuring performers met their cues and occasionally providing accompaniment.
But with the chapel to decorate, the instruments to check and double-check, the girls to reassure and settle, and seats yet to fill, the next week would be exhausting. They hadn’t sold nearly enough tickets. Lucasta had neither the time nor energy to spend mooning over a man who had kissed her in a moment when he was beside himself with emotion.
And there was no use dwelling on the marriage he had proposed to assuage his aunt’s sense of propriety. The look of scorn Lady Payne had given her, as if she were the worst sort of social climber, a contemptible garden slug?—
“Do you want to marry him, then?” Annis regarded Lucasta curiously.
Lucasta’s heart slammed in her chest, startling her. As usual, she and her friends stood in their own little group, the recipients of many stares. The difference from weeks past was that the stares were now speculating, rather than scornful or indifferent. Gorgons they still were, but the Gorgons had become feared and respected rather than objects of pity.
All thanks to Jem and his calculated remarks.
I meant all of it, he’d said. She couldn’t dwell on how deeply those words thrilled her. But to offer marriage?
“I wouldn’t—I don’t—” Lucasta stumbled. “Wait, whom do you mean?”
Annis could not possibly know of Jem’s insane declaration in the hall at Arendale House. She had been in the parlor with the other girls, chatting over tea, and when Lucasta came storming in with a white face and wild eyes to report that the Marquess had breathed his last, the girls had all taken turns to embrace Bertie, who burst into tears at the thought of being locked away in mourning once again, then had taken a polite leave.
The two days following, having grounds to excuse herself due to a female complaint, Lucasta had kept to the house. She had spoken of that kiss to no one, though she breathed it, brooded over it, relived the experience in her mind’s eye every waking moment and then carried Jem’s kiss with her into the realm of fantastic dreams.
“Which one? O Queen Lucasta.” Minnie smiled with amusement. “Two men, a baron’s heir and a viscount, vying for her hand. What was the forfeit we proposed for the first among us to receive an offer of marriage?”
“The forfeit was for whomever accepts an offer of marriage,” Lucasta said. “I have accepted no one. I have not been made a proper offer, actually.”
“Trevor is handsome,” Annis noted.
“Bertie thinks Frotheringale is handsomer,” Selina pointed out.
“Really, girls, what has happened to us?” Lucasta scoffed. “We used to spend evenings like this debating the accuracy of various translations of Homer. Now we are reduced to discussing which men we might marry?”
“It was worth a try, since everyone else does it,” Minnie said with a shrug. “Though I admit the topic becomes tedious.”
“Miss Lithwick.” Clara Bellwether joined them, exquisite in a gown made of heavily embroidered royal blue silk that Lucasta guessed had been smuggled from France. She had been spending too much time in Jem’s company, learning from his observations on fabric, cut, and style. She could not look around the room without seeing what each person’s clothing said about them, their history, their tastes.
Clara Bellwether liked expensive, she liked fashionable, and she liked to be admired. She did not, judging from the glitter in her narrowed eyes, like Lucasta.
“How lovely that you could stop by my little gathering,” Clara said. “No event is complete unless the Gorgons attend. I find myself quite honored.”
“I was flattered by the invitation,” Lucasta replied. It had come addressed to her this time. That was another oddity, receiving invitations on her own account rather than playing chaperone to Cici.
Her cousin stood across the way, captured by a rich older widower intent on explaining, through admiration of Sir Egbert’s horse, how the Dutch masters achieved their canvas effects. The Baron must have impressed on his daughter the need to entice a solvent suitor who could support the family coffers, which might explain why Cici looked miserable.
